CHAPTER

14

If Piegal Shaeb had been unhappy before, his reaction upon receiving the latest information concerning the small group of youths who had insulted, robbed, and defied him now verged on the apoplectic.

He did not make his feelings visible, of course. There was no screaming, no ranting and raving. It was not his way. Shaeb was a shut Shell, a world unto himself. Only a certain firming around the mouth and at the forehead, a barely perceptible tension in his words, betrayed that anything was out of the ordinary. Even his closest associates would have been hard put to remark any difference.

Inside, however, Shaeb was incensed. More than revenge, more than retribution, a correction was in order. Harmony had to be restored. In order for that to happen, he needed to learn precisely and without possibility of equivocation exactly what the hell was going on.

Street scrawn did not blatantly scrim one of his properties and get away with it. One of their slightly older friends did not penetrate a secure facility, kill all those on duty, and free the perpetrators of the original outrage. It made no sense. For yet another time he called forth the dimensional clarifications based on the sensor recordings that had been taken from the building where the holding cell had been located. They portrayed, in as much detail as possible, an unidentified young man; a much shorter younger one; a slender young woman; and the taller intruder’s distinctive winged pet. Not a single weapon was in evidence.

With an irritated wave of a hand he replaced the view floating in the room with the one that showed the aftermath of the trio’s intrusion: fleeing captives, holed wall, dead underlings. Separating the two views there was only the mysterious flash and its accompanying concussion. How had the insufferable transposition from view one to view two been accomplished? People he paid to shed light on such things had come up with lame explanations at best. A concealed pulse or sonic weapon could have hurled the Sakuntala through the wall and the human operatives into the ceiling. Neither, however, offered a credible explanation for the mysterious flare.

Identification of the youthful tall intruder had so far proven impossible. There were no records of him in any Shell sybfile anywhere on Visaria. Therefore he was either a genius at identity masking, or possibly a visiting offworlder. Though not yet ready to discard any explanation, Shaeb found himself leaning toward the former. At least it offered some rationale for the stranger’s association with the other young scrims. For an offworlder to inexplicably take their side made no sense at all.

But then, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, nothing about this nasty and hard-to-resolve matter made any sense.

Even if the tall youth was some kind of rogue professional, his taking the side of the imprisoned youngsters was difficult to rationalize. Unless, Shaeb told himself, the other youth had somehow managed to gather together enough cred to hire a pro. Still, it was a bold (or reckless) professional who would take the cause of a bunch of street scrims against the Underhouse of Shaeb. Unless he had been kept in the dark about whose interests he was contesting. That possibility, at least, made a strained if contorted kind of sense.

If it also constituted the actual explanation, Shaeb decided, then it might be possible to make contact with this independent operator and explain to him the unfortunate error he had made. That done, any sensible professional would seek to correct his mistake by turning in, or selling back, his younger employers to the offended Shaeb. Gazing at the projections, such thoughts made him feel better. He had come up with a course of action that could be pursued.

But before the young unknown independent could be inveigled, he first had to be identified and contacted. So far, Shaeb’s underlings had been unable to accomplish this. A consequence, he told himself with a resigned sigh, of having to rely on the labored mental exertions of fools.

Time would probably resolve the situation. It usually did. But he was impatient as well as irate. The vile scrawn were not the only ones who had access to superior outside help.

A second wave of his hand banished the projections from the desk. Speaking aloud, he addressed the inner sanctum’s omnipresent AI. “I’m going out. If anyone inquires, I am indisposed until tomorrow morning.”

“Very good, Piegal,” the AI responded. “Will you be requiring transport?”

“Yes. Solo and discreet, please.”

“No escort? You are always a target, Piegal.”

“I know that,” he replied touchily. “I will not go out without being suitably masked.”

“As you desire.” The AI was programmed to be compliant, not querulous. Unlike some of its cybernetic brethren.

 

The residence occupied the top floor of a presumptuous twenty-story structure in one of Malandere’s best residential neighborhoods: home to well-to-do merchants, heads of municipal and planetary departments, vit personalities, successful artists, and more. The cream, such as it was, of Malanderean and to a lesser extent Visarian society.

Having been informed of the imminent arrival of his circumspectly anonymous visitor, the owner had instructed his residence’s AI accordingly. The apartment AI proceeded to communicate directly with the incoming vehicle. Identification, security arrangements, and arrival protocol thus having being performed without the interpolation of slow-moving organics, Piegal Shaeb’s transport was admitted to the subterranean garage without delay or incident.

Ascending the center of the building via one of its multiple lifts, the visitor’s personal path proved as smooth and uneventful as that of his vehicle. Once at the top, the lift’s door opened into a spacious living area steeped in knowledge and good taste. The internally lit, climate-controlled wall of precious real books was proof enough of the owner’s preferences. Holding a softly humming glass of golden, frothy liquid in one hand, he flicked back the oversized sleeve of his richly embroidered silket and advanced to greet his guest.

“Good day, Piegal,” he offered courteously.

“I wish it were so, Shyvil.” Exiting the lift, Shaeb pushed past the Malandere Municipal Authority’s senior situations analyst and into the living area, where he appropriated unbidden a seat on a lounge upholstered with the glossy dark blue skins of several rare Visarian animals.

Bemused and curious in equal measure, Theodakris settled himself into the chair opposite. Below, to his right and to the left of his visitor, green space and mathematically interlaced waterways were visible through the floor-to-ceiling transparent wall. The elegant landscaping formed part of the private parkland that separated one multistory residence building from its equally expensive twin.

“I’m sorry you’re not having a good day.” Theodakris smiled encouragingly. “My place is secured. You can remove that sprayon if you like.” He appreciated his guest’s prudence in masking his face and true identity for the purpose of the call. Having the image of a visiting Piegal Shaeb recorded for posterity by the building’s multiple security sensors could, at some time in the future, possibly prove counterproductive. Both men were great believers in preventive preemption. It was a caution they had discrete reasons to share.

Impatient as usual, Shaeb waved off the offer. “I am fine, thank you. Quite used to wearing different faces.”

“Both in person and in business.” Theodakris smiled a second time.

“It is business that brings me here now,” Shaeb informed him.

Theodakris gave a slight shrug as he sipped at his drink. The golden froth purred. “I didn’t think it was a social call. Not at this time of day. What can I do for you, Piegal?”

The master of the Underhouse of Shaeb reached into a pocket and removed a tiny sphere. Leaning forward over the free-form table hewn from a single crystal of pale green sphene, he handed it to his host. “For a start, identify someone for me.”

Theodakris took the sphere. Positioning it over the center of the table, he murmured a coded command. A hole opened in the center of the translucent slab. Irregular in outline, it looked like a melting mouth. Accompanied by a barely audible hum, the sphere sank within.

Settling back in the chic and extremely expensive chair fashioned from plaited metal, Theodakris looked across the table at his guest. “The customary ‘consulting fee’ will apply.”

“Together with the usual concomitant favors; yes, I know.” Shaeb neither leaned back nor relaxed. In fact, the usually controlled Underhouse master looked as stressed as Theodakris had ever seen him. Something serious was afoot. The senior analyst went so far as to set his glass aside.

“Since your visit is not social, I presume your need for advanced identification is a matter of some urgency.”

Shaeb nodded. There was no need to hide anything from the senior analyst. It was not possible, anyway. “One of my local ventures recently suffered a hostile intrusion. Numerous articles of considerable value were taken. Subsequently, attempts were made to market them.”

Theodakris did not try to conceal his surprise. “I’d think your reputation would be enough to protect your interests.”

Shaeb offered a diffident wave. “The boosters were almost as youthful as they were clever. In the end, they were undone by a combination of hubris and inexperience. It apparently never occurred to them that any fence on Visaria capable of moving the kind of goods they stole would also have contact with me. It was not difficult to pick them up. Under appropriate questioning, the survivors speedily divulged every detail of their plot.” He paused. “One has to admire their audacity, however ultimately fatal it would prove to be.

“Only one member of the group, the youngest, succeeded in escaping incarceration. Everything being under control and the merchandise recovered, I put it out of my mind.” Shaeb’s immobile expression shifted ever so faintly into a frown. “Then something unexpected happened. I dislike the unexpected. It disrupts routine.”

“A kindred sentiment,” Theodakris declared.

“The three surviving scrims were freed by the youngest member of their group, acting in concert with a single outsider. I am tending more and more to believe that he is an offworlder, though I as yet have no proof of that.”

“The reason being,” Theodakris concluded, “that no local professional would go up against you.”

A nod, no less languid than the frown that accompanied it. “Common sense aside, there are rogue operators who occasionally are too broke, too indifferent, or too unsane to act rationally. This was no ordinary operative, however. Despite his apparent youth, unmistakable in the sensor recordings”—the Underhouse Master gestured at the hole in the table—“he somehow succeeded in overcoming a quartet of my best people, including one very expensive alien mercenary. So I am doubly plumbed—by the loss of four valued subordinates as well as that of those who committed the original violation.” Thin lips tightened perceptibly. To anyone who knew Shaeb, it was the equivalent of a wild-eyed scream.

“I want the at-large scrims back, to face the justice due them, and I most especially want this unknown operative.”

Though he could sympathize with his guest’s restrained fury, Theodakris still thought him overwrought. “Slacken, Piegal. Anyone as proficient at his art as you depict should be known. If he’s not in the city files, he’ll be described elsewhere in the planetary Shell.”

Voicing a command brought forth a virtual panel in front of his chair. Sitting up straight, the senior analyst leaned forward and began weaving his hands through the glowing, brightly colored configurations. Recognizing him, they responded.

Shaeb looked on with interest. Though he had made ample use of Theodakris’s connections in the past, he had never been present when the senior analyst was actually at work.

“It seems foolish to wonder, but I presume this particular search cannot be traced back to you.”

Peering at his guest through the hovering virtual as he worked, Theodakris smiled. “I wouldn’t enter secure sections of the Visarian Shell unless I could ensure privacy through misdirection.” He gestured at the hovering panel he was working with. “I set up this line a long time ago. No one will even be able to tell that the sybfiles in question have been accessed.”

Within the table, the information pellet Shaeb had handed over was a rotating blur, spinning at an incredible speed. Precisely focused light extracted information from within. Data was channeled, transshipped, compared. As an adjunct to the search that was being run, a one-third life-sized image of the subject appeared as a separate projection above another part of the supremely functional table. Plainly compiled from several sensor sources, it was occasionally less than flawless. The portrayed individual was shown standing, speaking, and moving. So was a certain unidentified small flying creature.

Something jarred Theodakris’s attention, as if he had been slapped by an invisible hand, hard. His hands stopped working the panel. Hurriedly, he waved it aside, shoving sharply to his right the virtual instrumentation that was partially blocking his view of the projection. Periodically refreshing itself, the hovering image was of a lanky young man with red hair and green eyes. Occasionally the serpentine flying creature darted in and out of the projection.

Though the senior analyst said nothing, his perceptive visitor immediately noticed the change. “Something about this distasteful scrim intrigues you?”

“Intrigues me?” Leaning back, Shaeb slapped both palms down on his thighs. “Oh, this is too wonderful, Piegal! Too marvelous to believe! You see, I have for some days now been debating whether to seek out this very individual myself. And here you have brought him to my notice anew!” His tone turned suddenly, and unexpectedly, solemn. “Why, it’s almost as if this individual and I were somehow bound together by a disdainful Fate.”

Shaeb felt lost. It was not a feeling with which he was comfortable. “You know the operative?”

Theodakris moderated his glee. “He’s not an operative. Not in the sense you’re thinking of, that is. I encountered him not long ago while engaged in my normal routine of perusing and analyzing daily police reports. He plucked a kid from the arms of our benevolent authorities by convincing the very thranx visitors who were holding him to let him go. Then he vanished. I’ve been torn ever since with trying to decide whether to seek him out.”

Shaeb folded his arms across his chest. “It is apparent that I lack the information that would allow me to make sense of what you are saying.” He gestured at the systematically recycling images. “My interest in him is straightforward. What is yours, that you should take such an interest in an unknown? And if he is not a rogue operative, then what is he?”

“Ah,” murmured Theodakris, appearing for the moment as if he were completely alone in the room, “what indeed? There are many things I wish I could tell you, my friend. Much that you would find of interest, and some that would shock you.”

Shaeb’s gaze narrowed. He had been called many things by many people, friend as well as foe, but never shockable. “Try me.”

“I can’t.” Despite the gravity of the situation, the senior analyst could not keep from chuckling. “I can’t tell anyone. To do so would be to invite full mindwipe.”

Now the master of the Underhouse Shaeb was intrigued. “Would I be wrong in inferring that others besides myself have an interest in detaining this independent?”

For some reason, this query caused the senior analyst to burst out laughing again. “My dear Piegal, you have no idea!” Wiping first one eye, then the other, Theodakris pointed at the shifting image. “Unless I have utterly misjudged things, and as an analyst of some small skill I believe I have not, the young man is an offworlder named Philip Lynx. He commonly goes by the sobriquet Flinx. That peculiar flying creature you see darting in and out of the projection is from a world called Alaspin. It is commonly known as a minidrag, or ‘miniature dragon,’ though the name is purely descriptive and not in any way scientific. It has the capability to spit a distance of several meters and with great accuracy a venom that is highly corrosive and inordinately toxic.”

Shaeb was nodding, storing the information as effectively as if it were being committed to a subox. “That would partially explain how this person and one adolescent companion were able to overcome those in charge of holding the three incarcerated scrims. But only partially.” He eyed the analyst. “Though you say he is no operative, this Flinx person must have comparable abilities.”

“You have no idea,” Theodakris reiterated. With a surprisingly acerbic snigger he added, “As a matter of fact, if the limited information available on this particular subject is to be believed, no one has any idea.”

Shaeb liked straightforward explanations. He wasn’t getting any. “That doesn’t help me, Shyvil. I am not paying you to be obscure.”

“Believe me, I’m not.” Smile and accompanying laughter went away with a suddenness that would have shocked anyone but Shaeb. “I’ve got some advice for you that isn’t obscure. Leave this one alone. Swallow your pride, absorb your losses, and forget about him. From what very little I have been able to learn about him over the course of perusing many years of the most intermittent and questionable reports, contact with him is markedly unhealthy.

“There was a time, long ago, when I would have responded differently. But time passes, life progresses, obsessions fade. That’s why I decided, after some serious private agonizing, not to follow up on my initial inclinations.” He gazed at the recycling images with what could almost have been considered longing. “Believe me, my interest in him far exceeds yours, yet I know without hesitation that it is in my own best interest to ignore him.”

Seeking clarification, Shaeb only found himself further bemused. “I do not grasp the fullness of what you are saying, but this I know: I cannot ignore him. He has cost me self-respect and cred. Apparently there are certain unknowns involving this youth that you have decided to let go. I cannot.”

Even though it had by now run through the same sequence of enhanced recordings dozens of times, Theodakris found he could not take his gaze off the projection. “Okay. Then instruct your people to shoot him on sight. Don’t try to bring him in for questioning or a lingering revenge. Kill him from a distance. As great a distance as possible. Because if my suppositions are correct, you won’t get the chance to do so from close up.” Now he did take his eyes off the shifting images, long enough to meet his guest’s gaze. “I will say it one more time. You have no idea, Piegal, what you’re up against.”

Shaeb could not be intimidated. Annoyance, however, was something even he was subject to. “Operative or something else, he’s just one youth.” He waved a hand dismissively. “The flying creature can be contained, or otherwise dealt with.” He shifted in his chair as if preparing to leave. His tone was intolerant. “You have no other information for me?”

“I’ve told you what I know,” Theodakris replied, “and that includes information that’s not available on any Shell. At least, not on one that’s accessible to any but a very few Commonwealth citizens. Consider yourself privileged.”

Rising, Shaeb felt otherwise. “You won’t help me resolve this matter?”

Theodakris did not stand. “I’ve done what I can and more than I should. I’m telling you, Shyvil, avoid this young man as you would a drug-resistant plague.”

“Why?” Shaeb stared hard at the senior analyst. “Tell me precisely, why?”

Theodakris’s gaze fell. “I wish I could, but I don’t know the right answer myself. From the tiniest dribs and drabs of information I’ve been able to acquire over the years—call it a perverse hobby—this Flinx is like a wandering black hole. No one ever sees exactly what he does, or how, but the consequences of his passing are all too evident for those with eyes capable of seeing.”

Shaeb hesitated, finally asked, “You called it a ‘perverse hobby.’ What is your ongoing interest in this offworlder?”

The senior analyst looked up. “I can’t tell you that, either, Piegal. Not for all the cred on Visaria. I can’t tell anyone.”

With a soft grunt, the Underhouse master started for the lift. “Maybe if I bring him before you secured and bound and dump him on the floor at your feet with his lethal pet fried to a crisp and served up on a platter, you’ll feel more articulate. That will put an end to it.”

“An end to it?” The expression that came over Theodakris’s face as he repeated his guest’s comment was conflicted. There was much there to see: fear, interest, uncertainty, and, most strangely of all, an almost perceptible yearning, as if for something valued and gone. “I’ve lived the last fifty years of my life assuming there had already been an end to it.” He gestured toward the projected hovering image that was proving persistent in more ways than one. “The universe, my friend, is full of surprises. One just doesn’t expect one of this magnitude, on an otherwise fine day in midyear, to be dumped unexpectedly in one’s lap.” Turning to face his retreating guest, the senior analyst then voiced the most unanticipated comment of the entire visit.

“You know, I’ve had an interesting life.”

Taken aback, Shaeb could only mumble a quick thank-you and good-bye. He left Theodakris still seated in his wonderfully sinuous chair, still staring at the same projection he had already viewed over and over.

The senior analyst, Shaeb decided, was turning senile with unexpected rapidity. All this inane and directionless muttering about unexplained events from long ago. As much as he liked Theodakris personally, the Underhouse master had no room within him for misplaced empathy.

It was clearly time to begin cultivating a new source of information within the Justice Ministry.

 

Nothing in the hotel suite Flinx and his new acquaintances had been forced to abandon in haste was irreplaceable. Always a light traveler, he had left behind nothing that could not be bought anew elsewhere, on another world if not on Visaria, or reproduced by the engines of profound manipulation that were available to him on the Teacher.

Sallow Behdul, of all people, turned out to have a relative outside the city who reluctantly agreed to give them shelter until the tumult surrounding their raid, subsequent capture, and eventual escape died down. Having spent the majority of his life on other worlds and in cities, it was a new experience for Flinx to find himself on an actual farm.

Like all such modern facilities, that of Behdul’s cousin was fully mechanized, regulated, and kept in continuous adjustment by a vast array of instrumentation. Food animals received precise amounts of nourishment coupled with the appropriate vitamins, minerals, and supplements. Hundreds of years of genetic fine-tuning had created creatures designed to produce the maximum amount of protein from the least amount of input. The latter took the form of fodder that had been just as proficiently manipulated. There were also extensive fields of food plants, several of which were unknown to Flinx.

All of this was protected and nurtured beneath billowing sheaths of organic polymers whose opacity and thickness was adjusted according to the prescribed seasonal programming. Too much sunshine would burn the crops; too little, starve them. It was the same with the animals. Behdul’s cousin reacted with appropriate horror when Flinx wondered aloud why he simply could not do away with the floating polymer swathes. Doing so would mean, Tracken Behdulvlad explained, exposing his precious flocks and crops to the vagaries of the atmosphere. Such a thing was alien to progressive agriculture.

“Kind of pretty.”

“What?” Turning from his contemplation of the sunset as viewed through several translucent polymer puffs, Flinx saw that Zezula had come up behind him. Her injuries were healing quickly, though red blotches on her exquisite features still showed where the oppressive metal squares had adhered.

She nodded in the direction of the blurred, setting sun. “Pretty. The scenery out here. But dull. I can’t believe that people actually choose to live like this.”

He offered up a cordial smile. On his shoulder, Pip dozed deeply. “Fortunately for you and your friends, some do. Somebody has to cultivate the food to feed a planetary population, since not everybody has access to synthesizers.”

She nodded. “I’ve eaten a lot of synthetics, but I never really cared for them. Growing up in Malandere, I never gave much thought to where food came from. I was only ever worried about getting enough of it.”

He found himself feeling sorry for the girl. On another world, in other circumstances, she might have had hopes of receiving a better education, or of becoming a vit personality, or perhaps exploring hitherto unsuspected artistic depths. Not only had Visaria’s largest city beaten her down, but it threatened to become an inescapable trap. So, for that matter, had Drallar, the difference between them being that he had made it out and, at least so far, she had not.

She moved closer. “I grew up worrying about everything. That’s the way it is in the city.”

For a moment he wondered if his Talent was functioning. Because while her words and attitude, down to the posture she affected, said one thing, her emotions shouted something else entirely. Presenting herself as winsome and worried, inside she radiated a confidence and self-assurance that bordered on the bold. It began to dawn on him that he was witnessing yet another example of human duplicity. Even though Subar was nowhere to be seen, the present situation was one from which he now sought to disengage himself. Preferably without giving his abilities away.

So instead of coolly informing her, Your mouth says one thing but your emotions say another, he replied as distantly as he could without being rude. “Everybody worries about their life. I’m sure you’ll make something of yours.”

She nodded and edged still closer. On his shoulder, Pip stirred but did not awaken. Her hand rose to grip his upper left arm. It glided downward, past elbow and forearm, and would have grasped his fingers had he not used them to suddenly scratch at the side of his face.

“I’m sure I’ll make something,” she murmured.

What he sensed within her simultaneously attracted and repelled him. He felt at once sorry for her and disgusted at her behavior. If he referred to it bluntly, she would no doubt deny it, perhaps even mention it to Subar. Though it mattered not at all in the greater scheme of things if she did so, Flinx felt a sort of kinship with the youth. Enough so that he did not want to see him hurt, if it could be avoided.

So instead of pointing out that he could tell she was after power and control and not just the pleasure of his company, he stepped away from her.

“I’m sorry, Zezula. I’m bespoke for, myself.”

She smiled and nodded as if she understood, but if emotions were combustible, she would now be a raging spire of flame. No one takes kindly to rejection, he knew, no matter how civilly framed.

“Her name’s Clarity,” he added in hopes of dampening the furious blaze within her. To change the subject, he raised an arm and pointed. “The sun’s almost down.”

“Tshas,” she muttered. Her tone was neutral but her carefully concealed emotions indicated she hoped that the solar furnace in question would land on his head. “A special moment to share.” While projecting nothing but loathing for him, she brushed aside his demurral and edged toward him with an eye toward re-establishing their previous proximity.

If only she knew, he thought distastefully as he worked to disentangle himself from her grasping hands, how clearly he saw the truth of her feelings even as she sought to ply him with touches and words. Tomorrow for certain, he told himself, he would leave this place. He had done more for these youngsters, some of whom were clearly more worth helping than others, than he had ever intended to do. As was often the case with those he encountered on other worlds.

Without a doubt his determined resistance to her advances, or for that matter resistance from any member of the opposite sex, was something she was not used to. “Am I so unpleasant to look upon?” she queried him as they struggled gently. “This woman you speak of isn’t here now. I am. Even the United Church makes allowances for distance.”

He shoved one of her arms down. Another came up, reaching for him with persistence. “We’re not as far apart as you think.”

“Oh no?” Her eyes, which were as striking as the rest of her, flashed at him. “I bet I can make you forget her. Even if she’s on the other side of Visaria. Even if she’s on another world, far away and remote.” Zezula’s moist lips were parted, inviting, her arms extended and open to him. She wanted to possess him, and him to possess her.

But as only he could sense, not in equal degree.